


who walks this dusty road

by verity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banter, De-Aged Derek, Episode Tag, F/M, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Hook-Up, M/M, Pack Family, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Derek go off on some two-day wolfbrother spiritual journey in the Preserve that involves shirtlessness and minimal bathing, so Stiles spends a weekend taking hacking lessons from Danny, combing through Deaton's books with Lydia, and squashing his math homework beneath him when Malia tackles him onto his bed. For once, Stiles isn't thinking about anything but this, the way she pins him to the bed effortlessly and takes what she wants, how comfortably their bodies fit together. Then she puts her mouth against his ear and says, "Do you want to fuck him?"</p><p>"What," Stiles says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who walks this dusty road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinneas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneas/gifts).



> thanks/blame to ademska, Ashe, and languisity, who cheered me into the night.

"I should ground you." Melissa takes a bag of peas from the freezer, one that's been thawed and frozen again so many times the contents are basically a mashed-pea meteorite; she passes it to Scott. "Both of you."

"You're not my mom," Derek says, then blanches.

Scott presses the peas against Stiles's eye socket. "Does it hurt?"

Stiles shrugs. "I've had worse from you."

He means Scott—there have been plenty of tussles over Mario Party and the last pack of Gushers over the years—but Derek hunches in on himself like a kicked puppy. Scott was the one who threw the punch: he was dragging Derek off Deaton, swung, overshot, and got Stiles right in the eye as Stiles rushed to get between all of them and Lydia.

Melissa is a licensed foster parent with a vacant spare room, so she's the one who took on Derek duty when the Jeep rolled back into Beacon Hills. Derek doesn't seem too happy about that, but he doesn't seem happy with anything. It's weird to see the sad twist of the older Derek's lips on this kid, whose face is soft and unmolded with a pink bow of a mouth and cheeks baby-smooth. He's shorter than Stiles by an inch. They're the same age, supposedly, but Derek makes Stiles feel ancient.

Stiles clears his throat. This is the time for soothing platitudes, like _you don't grow up to be a total asshole_ or _you've never hurt me on purpose_ , but come on, it's not like Derek can't hear him lie. "It's okay. Friendly fire, I get it."

Derek huffs. "You're not my friend, either."

"How would you know?" Stiles says. He presses a hand to his chest, mock-wounded; Scott picks up his free hand and puts it over the bag of peas. "I'm hurt, man. What we've got—it's really something."

—

Deaton says that the enchantment will wear off in a few weeks, that Derek will recover his memories, be good as new. "So, old and gamey?" Malia says.

"He's 23," Deaton says.

Malia rolls her eyes. "I know."

"Eater no eating," Stiles says hurriedly as Lydia's eyes flick up from her phone, amused.

Derek is sitting with Kira in the back of the office, ignoring everyone else. They're playing with a newly-spayed cat who's napped off most of her sedatives, her movements slow and lazy. She settles in Kira's lap after a few minutes, putting her head on Kira's thigh so Derek can still scratch her behind the ears. For him, Paige died six months ago and Kate's betrayal is still fresh, the loss of his family fresher still. _I trusted you_ , he said to Deaton a few days ago, _Mom trusted you,_ and then there was the scuffle that led to the black eye Stiles is currently sporting. Derek came back with them today anyway. It's not like he has a lot of options.

Six people in the Jeep for twenty hours was an experience that no one is too keen to revisit, so they came separately and split again when Deaton gives them the steady stare that means _shoo_. Scott has to go pick up his mom and Lydia and Kira are headed to the library to work on a school project, which leaves Stiles with Derek and Malia, neither of whom currently have a valid driver's license or a car. "I want to learn to drive," Malia says as Stiles shifts the Jeep into reverse, throws his arm across the back of her seat as he twists to check the clearance behind him. "My dad keeps fighting me about it."

"You did die in a car accident that one time," Stiles points out.

"Not _really_ ," she says.

Derek sulks in the backseat the whole way back to Scott's, head lolling against the window, chin at an unchanging downward slant. He doesn't rise to Malia's baiting or Stiles's teasing threats to put on a Fall Out Boy album he'll recognize. "Thanks," he says absently when they pull into Scott's driveway. Stiles waits until Derek shuts the front door behind him before he puts the Jeep back into gear.

Then he drives up to the preserve and makes out with Malia in the backseat for an hour. Malia is handsy—she keeps trying to stick her hand in his pants and Stiles keeps redirecting her—and bitey, which he doesn't mind so much. "Is this not okay?" she says after Malia vs. Pants Round 5. "I thought you wanted to do it."

"Uh, maybe," Stiles says. "Not here?"

"This car smells weird," Malia agrees.

" _Hey_ ," Stiles says.

—

"You're bruised," Derek says the next day. They're sitting on Scott's couch, waiting for Lydia, who has a lead on the supernatural hit list all of them are supposedly on. Derek lifts his hand, reaches, and until the last moment, Stiles expects him to stop—doesn't expect Derek's fingertips tracing the trail of hickeys up Stiles's neck from the dark one above his collar to the one half-hidden behind his ear, barely a mark. "Who did that to you?"

"None of your business." Stiles tries to come off all worldly and experienced, but instead he sounds like his grandma. He sighs. "My eye's healing up, anyway."

Derek nods. His hand is still on Stiles's neck, drifting down to settle on Stiles's shoulder. Stiles tamps down a shiver. "Have I hurt you before?"

"Sort of," Stiles says. "I was being an asshole. Does it matter?"

"I don't want to hurt any more people." Derek turns toward him, long-lashed and doe-eyed, mouth serious. "I don't understand why I'd—what _happens_ to me."

"Well, a lot of terrible stuff," Stiles says.

Derek digs his fingers into Stiles's shoulder. "I want to know."

Stiles says, "You don't."

—

Scott and Derek go off on some two-day wolfbrother spiritual journey in the Preserve that involves shirtlessness and minimal bathing, so Stiles spends a weekend taking hacking lessons from Danny, combing through Deaton's books with Lydia, and squashing his math homework beneath him when Malia tackles him onto his bed. He slips his hands under her shirt and experiences the holy, ecstatic union of fingers with lace-covered boobs, and she wedges a thigh between his legs and grinds up against him. For once, Stiles isn't thinking about anything but this, the way she pins him to the bed effortlessly and takes what she wants, how comfortably their bodies fit together. Then she puts her mouth against his ear and says, "Do you want to fuck him?"

"What," Stiles says.

"I marked you as mine," Malia says, trailing her fingers down his chest. "And he still touched you. I could smell him on you."

Stiles blinks up at her.

"In Finstock's class," she adds helpfully. "So, do you want him? Derek's pretty cute. I'd do him."

"He's your _cousin_ ," Stiles says.

Malia says, "What."

—

Derek has been _17 Again_ for two weeks and counting. He's spent the last reading all of Scott's comic books and has biked over to Stiles's to borrow more. "You can take whatever you want." Stiles waves vaguely at the bookshelf—it's raid time in WoW and his tank is needed. "You might like—whoa, fuck _you_ , dipshit—"

"Uh huh," Derek says.

When Stiles surfaces, it's dark outside and Derek is asleep in Stiles's bed, curled on his side with his hands tucked up under his head. His face is lax and cherubic in sleep, which is frankly disturbing. Stiles spends a minute watching Derek creepily before he yanks off his headset. "Derek," he says, leaning over to grab his ankle and shake it. "Wake up, dude."

Derek flails satisfyingly into consciousness, half-falling out of bed before he gets his bearings. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Do not even try me," Stiles says. He tightens his grip on Derek's ankle. "I know you, remember?"

"You said that we had—something," Derek says. "You weren't lying."

"Oh my god," Stiles marvels, because how is this his real life. "I'm not cheating on you with your cousin."

"She's my cousin?" Derek says.

Stiles is not having that conversation again right now. "Are you trying to scent my bed? Is this like peeing on my porch?"

Derek goes quiet for a moment. "Who am I to you?" He sits up, eyes gleaming blue in the darkness.

"We're friends, I think," Stiles says with a sudden pang of sadness. He misses Derek, _his_ Derek, the one he met in the woods with Scott, already weathered with sorrow and loss. "I trust you. You trust me."

"I don't know who to trust," this Derek says. "Everything is wrong."

Stiles smiles at him, just a little tug at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, buddy. I know."

When Derek leans forward and grabs Stiles's collar, Stiles goes back with him onto the bed, bracketing Derek's thighs with his own, letting Derek put him where he wants. He's careful, slow; this Derek's just learned that everyone he loves is dead or a predator, and Stiles doesn't want him to be afraid. He just wants—

Derek cups his hand around Stiles's jaw and tugs him down, seals their hot mouths together in a kiss.

—

Everything after that feels like it's happening in slow-mo, each touch singular and searing on Stiles's skin like a brand. He bites at the curve of Derek's throat, runs hot palms up and down Derek's smooth belly. "Let me know if I—" He stumbles over the words. "I've never done this before."

"Me either," Derek confesses.

"Oh," Stiles says. His dick is hard, pressed against Derek's thigh, chafing against his boxers. "Do you want to, um—"

"I want to put my mouth on your dick," Derek says.

Stiles loses his blowjob virginity with his pants around his knees, shirt rucked up on his belly, Derek Hale kneeling between his legs. He can't look away from Derek's lips, swollen from kissing and wrapped around his dick. It feels kind of wrong, but also so hot that the wrongness is receding to the background because all of the blood in Stiles's entire body is being co-opted by his dick.

He comes so hard that he's all trembly afterward. Derek stares at him worriedly until Stiles tugs him back up on the bed so he can return the favor.

—

Derek goes back to Scott's with a bunch of Alan Moore trades and a slow-healing hickey beneath his jaw. Two days later, he wakes up scowly and twentysomething, super hot and super unapproachable once more. Stiles observes a moment of silence for teenage Derek and their special BJ time together, and then they're back into action, figuring out how to track down Kate and get rid of the bounty on their heads.

"You're not going to tap that?" Malia says after the two of them leave Derek in his loft to brood or whatever he does at night. "I can share."

Stiles no longer has the black eye to show for it, but he was there when Deaton told Derek about Kate, what she'd done to Derek's family when he was Stiles's age. "You don't have to," he says.

"Oh, okay," Malia says, which is how they end up having sex in the Jeep in the parking lot. Stiles gets a cramp in his side and ends up spilling the used condom onto his t-shirt; otherwise, it's pretty great.

When Stiles goes to bed that night, he dreams about Derek. Not the intoxicating newness of their bodies together or the hard-won trust between them, but just Derek himself, the wistful kid he was for a handful of weeks, the one Stiles knew instinctively but barely got to know. In his dream, Derek is sleeping on Stiles's bed, mouth half-open, lashes fanning over his pale cheeks. Stiles keeps vigil over him until the morning light, until his alarm clock rings and thrusts him yawning and protesting back into the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
